Oaxaca, Oaxaca, Mexico

It was a few hours later back at the hostel, when the fleeting thoughts of the possible alterations, say cutting the Mezcal with gasoline,  could have happened to the product before it was ultimately placed into our possession, sealed with a plastic top in a reused Bacardi rum bottle, began to fill my head. The ramifications for consuming improperly produced or impure alcohol can be quite severe. But after a few sips I didn’t feel like I was going to die immediately, and decided that was a least a positive sign. Whether it had or had not, the stuff at least tasted like it had been cut with gasoline, but at $5 for a liter of alcohol it was worth the adventure of stopping at a roadside Mezcaleria and picking up something to bring back with us. Worth it as long as we didn’t lose our eyesight or worse that is…

Austin, Phil and I were returning from a day trip at Hierve El Agua (the water boils), a local mineral spring that perhaps was a tad overrated, located about one hour from central Oaxaca when we pulled our rental car into the small dirt clearing  along the two lane highway. In retrospect, our decision to choose the smallest, most local looking Mezcaleria along the drive was itself probably the reason for the burning sensation that torched our lips with every swig of Mezcal. But the photo ops: our Mexican salesman/distiller in front of his tiny roadside operation, the still slowing firing along in the background, could not have been beaten by any of the larger more commercial operations further along the road. 

Oaxaca, the similarly named city and state, is home to Mezcal, the often maligned and misunderstood relative of tequila. It’s a relationship that is slightly different than most people come to understand; Tequila requires production using blue agave from a distiller located in the state of Jalisco, while mezcal can be made using any agave in any state. Thusly, all Tequila is mezcal, but not all mezcal is Tequila. 

The semi-hot and relative dry climate of Oaxaca in southern Mexico makes it an ideal location for growing the agave Americana, or Maguey, the relative of the blue agave of tequila fame that is used in mezcal production. These differences, the type of agave used, the fact that the pinas are pit roasted instead of oven roasted, give mezcal its unique flavors. In the United States tequila enjoys a reputation as a spirit that is consumed for the sole purpose of getting drunk and making bad decisions, and mezcal a reputation of whatever it is that is below tequila. Here in Oaxaca I was going to find out why that really isn’t the case at all.

The state of Oaxaca lies in the far south of Mexico, stretching along the Pacific coast of the tail of Mexico between Guerrero and Chiapas as it swings to the east before butting up against Guatemala. The interior of the state features a mountainous terrain that has been home to hundreds of thousands of indigenous peoples since long before the arrival of Cortez over 500 years ago. As you move past the mountains and valleys, the rugged landscape eventually yields to the expanse of the Pacific ocean, giving Oaxaca a large stretch of coastal beaches, lagoons and cliffs much less accessible than many of Mexico’s more famous  beaches and resorts. 

Puerto Escondido (“hidden port”) epitomizes this remoteness, and was the initial destination upon our arrival into Mexico, three high school friends out to reunite once again on the travel circuit for a much needed “spring break” from the professional world. But getting there is no joke, and over 5 hours of driving later we finally descended out of the mountains once and for all and into the beach town of Puerto, as it’s often known by locals and travelers alike. 

The drive had been a quick introduction into what the state of Oaxaca truly is and how many of its peoples live their day to day lives. Only two weeks prior I had been in Tijuana for work, commuting from San Diego each day across the border to a modern industrial park. The facilities there were almost as nice and modern as any in the States, and except for a larger degree of labor intensive tasks (assembly lines reflecting the cheaper wages), overall the atmosphere was not unlike a developed, American factory. 

But here in Oaxaca we were, literally and figuratively, a 1000 miles away from Tijuana.  Not long after we had exited the city of Oaxaca, Highway 131 returned to a simple two lane road and began a gradual, meandering ascent into the surrounding mountains. As we rode along in the late afternoon sun, the world outside the car window returned to a life of simple agriculture, subsistence based economies, and modest roadside villages.

 Though the villages along the roadside were poor, the people, as in all of Oaxca, were friendly and happy, giving us looks of either smiles or bewilderment as we drove past. In a way it seemed a quiet, gentle life…except for the god damn “topes”. The speed bumps, or topes as they are known by the warning signs,  seemed to represent the olden, traditional ways of these villages more than their refusal to let anyone drive more than 5 mph through them: a way where a village was to be cared for and thought of, rather than driven through. The ends to which they accomplished such a feat was to build speedbumps of such staggering heights  that the only way to proceed over them without completely destroying the vehicle was to inch over at the slowest of possible speeds while waiting for the inevitable scrap of the underbelly bottoming out against the top of the bump. And after completing your harrowing expedition you proceeded to the next one, only 50 feet down the road, and continued to do so until you had made your way through the village. 

When we weren’t inching our way over speedbumps, we did the best we could to make time along the winding switchbacks through the mountains, accelerating through the turns while maintaining a vigilant eye for obstacles such as stray dogs, pedestrians, donkeys, even soldiers in camouflage and avoiding looking directly into the oncoming lights of the trucks and buses that were too lazy to turn their brights off for every passing car. 

In the end what had started as a supposed 3.5 hour drive had taken nearly 6 hours of switchbacking, speedbump navigating, obstacle avoiding, and a little good old fashioned getting lost. Needless to say we were thrilled to finally arrive in Puerto Escondido that Sunday night following a drive that after which even the Virgin of Guadelupe would have needed a cigarette.

 

Puerto Escondido is known for surfing; its main beach, Zicatela, has a reputation for producing some of the best waves in Mexico, and subsequently some of the best rip tides and undertows to go with. Hard to get to and with an often treacherous surf, there’s little wonder why it has never blossomed into a full scale resort destination, at least not for gringos that is. Which was perfect, as that was the intended purpose of our visit: escape the gringo trail of Mexico and venture off to Oaxaca, “where the Mexicans go to vacation”, as we had been told. 

It seemed like a noble idea, except for the fact that we had made one slight miscalculation; Semana Santa was next week. We were one week too early and instead found ourselves in a vacation city the week before the party began. Instead of beaches full of Mexican families and bars full of Mexican girls, we found handfuls of tourists here and there and bars full of dreadlocked gringos and burn outs.

 I have never considered myself much of a “relaxing vacation” type of person, and the three days we were planning on staying in Puerto had seemed like more than enough at first glance. But just our first day alone began to ease my impatience, perhaps something that the “maturation” of growing up and finding a job with only a few precious weeks of vacation had induced. For the first time in my life, I was ok with moving at a relaxed pace while traveling. Perhaps I was growing older, or perhaps Oaxaca had mellowed me out.

Most of the others staying in our hostel appeared to be similarly afflicted. Mornings in Puerto never started early, and it was close to noon before we found ourselves heading down the road to a café for some food and morning coffee. It was the type of lifestyle where your salutations of “Buenos Dias” were answered with a “Buenas tardes” and a smile. It was the type of lifestyle where you made no rush to finish your late breakfast, amazing chilaquiles and a couple cups of coffee in this case, and eventually found your way to the beach sometime in the mid afternoon. It was the type of lifestyle that emphasized doing nothing over doing something. It was the type of life style I never imagined myself enjoying.

I suppose we eventually grow old, we mature, and we learn to drink cheap Mexican beer on a beach and enjoy it. We had spent the first day hanging around Carazalillo, the most picturesque of all the local beaches, a small, sand crescent tucked away behind stone cliff walls topped with condos and oceanfront getaways. Beyond that the other beaches seemed nothing out of the ordinary. Zicatela had its immense size, a long straight stretch of off-white sand and crashing waves, the backside of the beach lined with dozens of open air restaurants. The tourist to restaurant ratio was at best maybe 3:1, so needless to say we had our choice of prime seats whenever we wanted. 

 There was some reality in the commonality and simplicity of the atmosphere around us, same as how Puerto Escondido wasn’t a particularly beautiful or noteworthy town, save for the fact that it was located next to the beach. But still we enjoyed it, and those we met seemed inexplicably drawn to stay longer, perhaps by nothing more than the love of being somewhere with no expectations.  A couple of the Brits in our hostel were preparing to depart for Cancun after Puerto in order to get a taste of the American Spring Break. We gave them a blessing and wished them well on their way.

And with that, only a few days later we were packing the car and preparing for our return trip to Oaxaca the city for the final leg of our journey. I enjoyed Puerto for everything that it was and wasn’t. We had done little more than eat food, drink beers, and hang out on the beach with random group of Brits and Irish but it had been a good trip nonetheless. It wasn’t your typical Mexican beach resort, but that was sort of the point, and it seemed well taken by everyone involved as far as I could tell.

By Wednesday evening we had arrived back in Oaxaca to our hostel, the return journey having been far less stressful than the beginning now that we had familiarized ourselves with the road, style of driving, and once again the god damn topes. 

Oaxaca is everything that Puerto Escondido is not. It’s an impossibly charming city of a quarter million residents scattered through the central valley. Rich in colonial architecture with narrow, cobblestone streets that cross the city and divide it up into minute quadrants, it is a city that is easy to explore, and with each passing block or park I began to enjoy it more and more. 

At the center of town, as in almost all Mexican cities, is the Zocalo, the central park, situated alongside the central cathedral. These two form the basis for the center of the city, the community and everything else, and as we approached that first night I was awestruck by the sheer number of people that inhabited this public space at the time. From the peripheral cafes, couples and families sat watching the multitudes of people circle around through the entertainers, vendors, hawkers and the like, all filling the evening air with a sense of life and vitality that simply doesn’t exist in public spaces in the United States.

We stepped away from the Zocalo down a side street for some dinner from a recommended street vendor selling, tlayudas, a local dish of a thin grilled tortilla topped with a spread of refried beans and then scattered above that a variety of ingredients such as chorizo, grilled pork, avocado, tomato and delicious queso Oaxaca. It was a filling meal that cost little and tasted great, a hallmark of Mexican food, and I was happy to discover yet another variety of cuisine from such a great culinary country.

After dinner we wandered over to Casa de Mezcal for our first true taste of the local spirit. We ordered a couple relatively cheap shots ($3) and posted up at the bar, doing the best to observe how the locals appeared to be consuming. A shot and a beer, served with a side of orange and limes wedges was the way to go.

This mezcal, good mezcal, was smooth with little burn to it, and once the fire of mezcal has been quenched, it opens up to an array of earthy and smokey flavors, far more complex than I would have ever imagined. I was now a mezcal believer, Austin as well: converts standing at the altar, nodding softly to the discovery that there was good mezcal to be had, and for only a handful of pesos! It was later the next day, at the aforementioned road side stand, would we be reminded again that not all mezcal is good mezcal.

Just outside of Oaxaca, a mere 15 minute drive up the nearby peak is situated one of the most impressive ancient ruins in all of the Western Hemisphere, the ancient Zapotec city of Monte Alban. Machu Pichu it is not, but for the convenience of getting there from a nearby city with an airport it served as quite the Mexican equivalent.

I had my doubts, knowing how little effort was required for us to arrive at the site, of whether it would actually prove memorable in any fashion. The views alone, a 360 panorama around the central valley of Oaxaca was enough to make it worth it right there, but the ruins, some dating back almost 2500 years were stunningly impressive in scale. “I get it, it’s old” Austin quipped, the blasé world traveler who now proclaimed himself “ruined out” after years of globetrotting to some of the world’s most famous relics and structures. But even Austin, in a moment of lesser posture, admitted that it was a site worth visiting. 

Back in Oaxaca we spent our last evening enjoying an amazing meal of Oaxacan cuisine at the rooftop patio of Café Oaxaca. The cuisine of the region, well known in the culinary world, has its roots in indigenous subsistence cooking, but with the complexity of dishes and flavors that have developed here, the moles in particular, it has lent itself readily to fine dining interpretations. Here by the fine candle light it was an almond mole with beef tongue, amazing it every way, but still not so different than at the working class market down the street where it had been mole coloradito, served over chicken and a bed of rice, nothing more to accompany, or perhaps more accurately, complicate the dish. 

The idea of the mole, the slow simmering sauce that takes hours to prepare, represented something more symbolic of Oaxaca than just food alone: time. People here seemed to have a lot of it, and while the first blush and quick quip of “lazy Mexicans” is an easy reaction, as I contemplated life here in Mexico’s poorest state, some of the realities of life in Oaxaca began make sense.

As Mexico continues its march towards modernization, led by the megalopolis that is Mexico City and the northern states that fuel the trade with the US, much of the rural, indigenous southern regions lag behind. Every “comedor” with no dining patrons, or hawker who works relentlessly to sell you a trinket for next to nothing, is an example of the subsistence economy here, where it’s not about how much money you earn per hour, but rather just how much money you earn; the hours never really end.

These were the hard parts of Oaxaca: the children working the streets, at best by performing acts or selling trinkets, at worst by simply pausing by your side with a longing glance for “una moneda”. It was a hard thought to move past while watching the hoards of kids giggling at the clown in front of the main cathedral, oblivious to the fact that the expectations of them in life right now could be anything different than this right here. It was a hard thought to know that the expectation for those with the trinkets wouldn’t be anything different than what they were then. 

My reason for optimism lay in the fact that overall as a country Mexico continues to grow, and that with better times come better opportunities and better futures. It might be some time before these possibilities reach those children from the little villages outside of Oaxaca, a long time even, but I think it will get there someday. You can feel the potential, especially in Oaxaca, a poor but peaceful state that has so many hard working people, but with so little real work to be done. 

In the meantime Oaxaca will continue to grow and flourish as a cultural and culinary capital, with economic gains hopefully only a little ways down the road. The food, the art, the tapestry, the architecture: by the end of our week there I began to understand how the expats I met simply stated that they had come for some reason or another and then just never left.